The 1968 Broadcast Tapes: How My Uncle Used an Underground Radio Show to Cover Up Serial Murder
👉 Previous Decision: You chose Option B in Chapter 5 – Surrender to the raiding officers.
The fluorescent lights of the precinct flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on the chipped paint of the interrogation room. I sat on a hard chair, my wrists chafed from the cuffs. My refusal to flee had led me here, to a cold, impersonal silence. Captain Kestrel entered, a folder tucked under his arm. He didn’t look at me.
“Mr. Albright,” he began, his voice flat, “we have evidence of your unauthorized financial activities.”
He slid a stack of documents across the table. They were bank statements, wire transfer receipts. My eyes scanned the unfamiliar numbers, the offshore account names I’d never seen. Money, hundreds of thousands of dollars, flowing into accounts linked to shell corporations. And then, a direct transfer listed under my name. A substantial payment.
“These funds,” Kestrel explained, tapping a manicured finger on one of the lines, “were used to pay you for spreading anti-war propaganda. Disrupting public morale during wartime.”
My blood ran cold. Offshore payments? Anti-war propaganda? The accusation was absurd, a transparent fabrication. I hadn’t seen a penny of that money. This wasn’t about the Apex tape anymore. This was a sophisticated frame-up, designed to silence me by making me out to be a traitor. They weren’t just shutting down my station; they were destroying my life, painting me as an enemy operative.
“This is impossible,” I said, my voice hoarse. “These are forged. I’ve never seen these accounts.”
Kestrel merely raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “The evidence suggests otherwise, Mr. Albright. Your station’s sudden broadcast of classified military content, combined with these financial dealings, paints a very clear picture.”
He pushed a phone across the table. “One call. Make it count.”
My mind raced. The killer, the hum, the stolen funds – it was all connected, and someone powerful was twisting the narrative. Kestrel, the agents, they were just pawns, or perhaps willing participants, in a larger game. I needed someone who understood the true players. Someone who knew how these games were played.
I picked up the receiver, my fingers tight around the plastic. The only person I could think of who might believe me, who might have the resources to untangle this web of lies, was Clara Finch. The investigative journalist.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 9 to continue the story.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours